"Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 2 - Elminster In Myth Drannor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenwood Ed)

He stepped into the path of her raging stride and asked gently, "And is it not better to invite them
in, win friendship and through it some influence to guide, than it would be to fight them, fall, and have
them stalk into our homes as smashing, trampling conquerors, striding amid the streaming blood of all our
people? Where is the glory in that? What is it you are striving to keep so sacred, if all our people perish?
Twisted legends in the minds of the humans and our half-kin? Of a strange, decadent people with pointed
ears and upturned noses, whose blinding pride was their fatal folly?"
Ildilyntra had been forced to halt, or her angry progress would have carried her into him. She
stood listening to his rain of questions almost nose to nose, white-clenched fists at her sides.
"Will you be the one to let these-these beast -races into our secret places and the very seat of
our power?" she asked now, her voice suddenly harsh. "To be remembered with hatred by what few of
our People will survive your folly, as the traitor who led the citizens he was pledged to serve... our very
race... into ruin?"
Eltargrim shook his head. "I have no choice; I can see only the Opening as a way in which our
People may have a future. All other roads I've looked down, and even taken this realm a little way along,
lead- and speedily, in the seasons just ahead-to red war. War that can only lead to death and defeat for
fair Cormanthor, as all the races but the dwarves and gnomes outnumber us twenty to one and more.
Humans and orcs over-muster us by thousands to one. If pride leads us to war, it leads us also to the
grave-and that is a choice I've no right to make, on behalf of our children, whose lives I'll be crushing
before they can fend, and choose, for themselves."
Ildilyntra spat, "That fear-ladling argument can be made from now until forever grows old.
There'll always be babes too young to choose their own ways!"
She moved again, stepping around him, turning her head to always face him as she went, and
added almost casually, "There is an old song that says there is no reasoning with a Coronal of firm
purpose . . . and I see the truth of it now. There is nothing I can say that will convince you."
There was something old and very tired in Eltargrim's face as his eyes met hers. "I fear not,
Ildilyntra ... loved and honored Ildilyntra," he said. "A Coronal must do what is right, whate'er the cost."
She gave an exasperated hiss, as he spread his hands a little and told her, "That is what it means
to be Coronal-not the pomp and the regalia and the bowing."
Ildilyntra walked away from him across the moss, to where a thrusting shoulder of stone barred
her way and gave a home to lavender creepers. She folded her arms with savage grace, and looked
south out over the placid water. It was a smooth sheet of white now in the moonlight. The silence she left
in her wake grew deep and deafening.
The Coronal let his hands fall and watched her, waiting patiently. In this realm of warring prides
and dark, never-forgotten memories, much of a Coronal's work consisted of waiting patiently. Younger
elves never realized that.
The High Lady of the Starym looked out into the night for what seemed a very long time, her
arms trembling slightly. Her voice was as high and as soft as a sudden breeze when she spoke next.
"Then I know what I must do."
Eltargrim raised his hand to let his power lash out and trammel her freedom-the gravest insult one
could give to the head of an elven House.
Yet he was too late. Sudden fire blossomed in the night, a line of sparks where his power met
hers and wrestled just long enough to let her turn. Her honor blade was in her hand as her eyes met his.
"Oh, that I once loved you," she hissed. "For the Starym! For Cormanthor!"
Moongleam flashed once along the keen edge of her blade as she buried it hilt-deep in her breast,
and with her other hand thrust its dragon tooth scabbard into the bright fountaining blood there. The
carved fang seemed to flicker for a moment, and then, slowly, melted away into the river of gore. More
blood was pouring from her than that curvaceous body should have been able to hold.
"Eltar ..." she gasped then, almost beseechingly, her eyes growing dark as she swayed. The
Coronal took a swift step forward and raised his hands, the glow of healing magic blazing along his
fingers-but at the sight of it she snatched forth the glistening blade and drove it hard into her throat.